


Fools Rush In

by shulamithbond



Category: Marie Antoinette (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexuality, F/F, Fertility Issues, Hate Sex, Loss of Control, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Work, Some Plot, because fuck history, possible feminism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shulamithbond/pseuds/shulamithbond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been watching "Marie Antoinette" a lot and I started to get a Vibe from her and movie!du Barry. So I wrote a thing. I always kind of hated that the two women who were the greatest outsiders to Versailles - one a foreigner and one a commoner - were enemies, anyway.</p><p>(There are a few historical details in here, like du Barry's first name and possible origins, as well as some stuff from the movie, some stuff I made up, and some stuff taken from Kathryn Lasky's book "Marie Antoinette: Princess of Versailles" (2000). However, in this story, I see Marie Antoinette and Madame du Barry as both being adult women around the same age, as they are in the movie. Also, as far as I'm concerned this is me shipping two fictionalized characters INSPIRED BY two real historical figures, NOT shipping two real historical figures.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The new gown itches.

Antoinette would never complain, of course she wouldn’t – she was raised to be well-mannered, and even if she hadn’t been, she’s far too afraid to speak out of turn now; too afraid to speak at all. She can barely walk; her legs feel as brittle and shaky as dead saplings in a storm. Maybe the immense panniers of the skirt make her steps look natural – _tiny, quick steps; you’ll look as if you’re floating_ – but she knows she’s barely keeping upright. She wants to beg for a cane, like a wizened old crone, or someone’s arm. But she doesn’t.

The gown is light blue, and deceptively light and delicate-looking. It makes her look like a cake. Underneath it are layers of fabric, scratchy lace, and bone, to squeeze and push her into the correct shape; an unnatural caricature of her own. Her breasts feel exposed; bared for all to see, pushed up and out as they are under the bow around her neck. The bow looks ridiculous. It reminds Antoinette of a dog’s ribbon. She wishes she was a dog. She would tear off the stupid bow with her teeth and run away into the woods.

It’s not as if she hasn’t worn corsets and even panniers before, but something about them feels different now – alien and hostile, and she’s somehow hypersensitive to every pinch and itch of them. Maybe it was watching the maids put them on her. She really does feel as if she watched it – as if it didn’t happen to her; as if her soul floated out of her body and watched from a distance. That feeling has been happening increasingly since the first time her mother put her on display for Count Mercy and the dignitaries at that ball. It happened again when they sent her the _poupée_ dolls for her trousseau gowns, and she looked at all the beautiful, inanimate little women, dressed up exquisitely and frozen in time, free to be picked up and handled by anyone at all. She feels like a doll now. A doll being dressed by a child for play – or a corpse being dressed for its funeral.

Louis doesn’t look too different from his portrait. He’s a little fatter, maybe, but still kind-looking overall, if not handsome. She feels nothing in particular when she looks at him – no warmth or romance or anything else. Perhaps that will come with time.

Antoinette curtsies to the king. He smiles, but there’s something crooked about it. He seizes her arm and starts taking her toward the carriage. Antoinette thinks he might be looking down her dress.

The two sisters stand by, watching, whispering to each other as if they think she can’t see or hear them, or as if they don’t care. They’re holding their lapdogs; Antoinette wishes she still had Mop. The Countess de Noailles just dropped him in a sack; maybe they’re going to throw him in a river to drown. She swallows.

 

* * *

 

 

The crowd that’s there to greet her outside Versailles is silent. No one smiles, except a few little girls who hand her bouquets of blue and white wildflowers. The Countess de Noailles won’t let her keep the bouquets; she has to hand them out to the assembled noblemen. They all stare at her as if they’re waiting for her to do something, but Antoinette doesn’t know what they want.

They don’t show her the little room behind the hidden door off of her bedchamber – of course they don’t – but Antoinette finds it anyway. It’s in blue, of course, but it’s quiet and small, not nearly wide enough for all her servants and ladies in waiting. There’s even a little bed in there, where she might even be able to spend the night. Even the walls are thick enough to block out the noise of the courtiers outside. For the first time since she left Austria, Antoinette smiles.

She’s on display again at the wedding. Her panniers’ size is absurd. They sway vulgarly with every step. She has feathers in her hair. Her neckline is cut low. She feels as if she’s tarted up like a whore – or a sacrifice – before the Lord himself. Why can’t she wear something simpler, at least in church? She tries to smile as she kneels beside her future husband before the enormous gold altar. Maybe this is what the Lord wants – these insane displays. After they say their vows, Louis kisses her on the cheek. She had practiced back in Vienna so she wouldn’t dribble ink when she signed the marriage certificate, but it doesn’t matter. She dribbles ink anyway.

Later, while she and Louis share their first dance as husband and wife, Antoinette looks out over the crowd and sees a woman standing next to the king. Unlike the pastels and golds of the court ladies, the woman wears dark green; like emeralds, or a forest. She doesn’t recall seeing her before. She doesn’t think Count Mercy or the Countess de Noailles briefed her on who this woman might be. Now that Antoinette has seen her, though, she can’t seem to stop looking. Not because of her beauty – she isn’t actually that beautiful, at least not in the sense that Antoinette has grown up thinking of beauty. Antoinette knows she is beautiful – her hair and skin are light-colored, her nose is small, and her features are delicately-shaped; demure. This woman is anything but demure. Her hair is thick and black, and her nose is rather prominent. Her chin is sharp, and her dark eyes seem to pierce whatever she is looking at.

Antoinette goes red, and nearly misses a step, when she realizes that those hawk-like eyes are fixed on _her_.

 

* * *

 

 _Nothing happened_.

 

 _What’s wrong with you?_ asks a voice in Antoinette’s head when she looks in the mirror, as a lady-in-waiting applies her rouge (all the ladies wear rouge at Versailles; it’s a requirement; Antoinette never wore it in Vienna). She’s been bathed and dressed like a corpse again, by ladies of the court who want to see a Dauphine naked, shivering in the morning chill, while she waits desperately for someone to slip a chemise over her head.

_Why are you so unappealing? Why can’t you please your husband? Why can’t you serve your country? Why can’t you adjust to the ways of the court?_

Antoinette makes etiquette mistakes all the time, it seems. The Countess de Noailles corrects her, again and again, until Antoinette does the proper thing by rote. Perhaps, Antoinette considers, perhaps Louis doesn’t want her because he thinks her too cold and machine-like. But anyone would be, doing nothing but participating in mechanical routines all day, treating every move as a step in a complicated, never-ending dance.

Letters from her mother come. Like the voices in her head, they assure her that this is her fault.

The first time Antoinette goes back into her hidden room after the first night, it’s to cry. She dabs at her eyes quickly so her makeup won’t smudge. The maids touch up her face as if they don’t notice, but she thinks they might be pretending.

 

The black-haired woman appears again, at a family dinner, sitting on the king’s right. She smiles at him when he slides his right hand under the table. Down the table, Antoinette’s new aunts, Victoire and Sophie, are gossiping about this.

“Who is that?” Antoinette whispers, finally, to the Countess de Noailles, who flinches.

“That woman,” she says softly, clearly trying to stay calm. “Is here to give pleasure to the king.”

At first, Antoinette doesn’t understand, but then some lord on her other side pipes up, “That’s du Barry, the king’s _mistress_ ,” and Antoinette _realizes_.

“Oh,” she whispers, going red again. She tries not to stare at du Barry, but du Barry is staring at her now. Antoinette looks down at her plate.

A server does something; Antoinette doesn’t see what. A whisper seems to spread around the table about it. Antoinette won’t look at the woman again, but she hears du Barry mutter, “Nobody treats me like a lady here.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Where does she come from?” Antoinette asks the aunts.

Sophie smiles wickedly. “From every bed in Paris.”

 

* * *

 

Antoinette refuses to speak to du Barry. At first, she isn’t sure why. When people like Count Mercy ask, it’s simple enough to tell them she doesn’t want to be seen conversing with a harlot…but that isn’t it. Her background might be part of it, but it’s more than that. Something about du Barry scares Antoinette, and it’s easier just to avoid her.

Du Barry can’t speak to her first because of Antoinette’s rank. She tries to send Antoinette invitations to tea, or diamonds, or even one of her pet monkeys. Antoinette sends each gift right back. Her control over whether she speaks to du Barry or not is all the control she has. When her mother and Count Mercy lecture her, she doesn’t seem to care anymore. Nothing seems scary any longer. Nothing seems like anything any longer. Louis ignores her, the days pass in an endless, rote pattern of etiquette, and nothing seems to have much point.

Du Barry starts snubbing Antoinette right back, even “accidentally” bumping into her as she stalks past her out of the hall. “Well, that seemed unnecessary,” the Princess Lamballe murmurs in a stage whisper as du Barry stomps off.

One morning, Antoinette gets sick. Some people hope it’s morning sickness, while others suspect poisoning. The doctor cannot find anything wrong with Antoinette’s stomach. “Her pulse is racing a bit,” he remarks to the Countess de Noailles and Count Mercy. “But otherwise, the Dauphine is in perfect health.” He recommends a little rest, more time spent in quiet prayer and meditations, less tea, and fewer sweets. “Excitement and stimulation are the worst things for her highness in this nervous state.” Antoinette bites her tongue so that she won’t tell the doctor that she has no excitement anymore, not in anything.

The king’s ministers begin to wonder if she is sickly and infertile. There is talk of Austria’s bad faith in trying to unload its damaged goods onto France. There are whispers of annulment.

Antoinette realizes she has no choice.

Du Barry is wearing red, which Victoire and Sophie would probably say is fitting. Du Barry is always wearing bright, bold colors, so different from Antoinette’s pastels and florals, and it makes her stand out. She looks white like the moon, her hair dark like the night, and wild.

Antoinette stands before her, feeling like a child, and says, “There are a lot of people at Versailles today.”

Du Barry smiles a little. Her face is hard to read. Finally, in a surprisingly soft tone, almost warm, she replies, “Yes, there are.”

 

* * *

 

 No one tells Antoinette whether the idea came from the king, or from du Barry herself. All Antoinette knows is that the Countess de Noailles comes to her one morning, and announces that the king has arranged for Antoinette to meet with du Barry in her hidden room.

“Why?” Antoinette asks her, puzzled and a little unnerved. The idea of being alone with du Barry is a profoundly strange one.

The Countess de Noailles grimaces. “His Majesty believes that the Countess du Barry may be of some assistance. With your Grace’s…marital issues.”

 _Well, du Barry is a whore,_ Antoinette realizes. So she supposes it makes sense. She shivers anyway.

 

* * *

 

Du Barry is the first to stir in the silence of the little blue room, as she pours out some tea for herself. She looks up at Antoinette. “Would you like some, Dauphine?”

Antoinette shakes her head. “The doctor thinks it makes me nervous.”

Du Barry sits back, stirring her own tea. She never learned to do it right; the spoon clinks loudly against the porcelain. Antoinette waits. Finally, the other woman asks, “So, is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Are you infertile?”

Antoinette stares at her, open-mouthed at the woman’s audacity. _“What?”_

“Are you?” du Barry presses. “Or don’t you know?” Her mouth curls at the corners, as if she’s amused by Antoinette. It makes Antoinette hate her even more.

“I am not,” Antoinette insists, even though she isn’t sure. The doctor said she wasn’t, but maybe he was just lying to her in order to comfort her, or because one of her mother’s people bribed him. She could be infertile, and she wouldn’t even know.

Du Barry seems to sense the thought, because she stops smirking. “You probably aren’t. Most women aren’t. It’s very rare,” she says quickly. She pauses, and then says, “There are some ways you can find out for yourself, you know.”

Antoinette stares at her until du Barry elaborates. “Your body gives you a few signs,” she explains. “They don’t always work, but…” she shrugs. “You do bleed every month, right?”

Antoinette blushes. “Yes.”

“Do you ever get anything between those times? Not blood; clear liquid?” Du Barry shrugs again under Antoinette’s glare. “If it’s cloudy-colored and wet, not tacky, that usually means you’re fertile. That’s why I ask.”

“Oh.” Antoinette looks down. This is officially the strangest and worst conversation of her life.

Du Barry turns cool again. “I was only trying to help. For the good of France.” She looks away.

“How do you”- Antoinette shakes her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“We didn’t have doctors at Madame Quisnoy’s.” Du Barry’s gaze is burning, daring Antoinette to comment. “We had to figure these things out by ourselves.”

“Ugh.” Antoinette allows her disgust to show. “I don’t want to know about _that.”_

“That’s too bad,” du Barry retorts, eyes flashing. “What was I supposed to do, your highness? My mother was a whore and my father was a friar who never wanted to acknowledge we existed. Nobody had any reason to marry me. You can’t get by on what you earn selling bagatelles and baby-sitting old widows. So enlighten me, Dauphine. Tell me how I should have survived.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Antoinette argues back, trying to match du Barry. “I am the future queen of France, how dare you”-

“ _You’re a child!”_ Du Barry hisses. “You know nothing about this country or this court, or being sovereign of anything! You’re only here to produce an heir, and you can’t even do that”-

She’s cut off as the slap rings through the air, setting the tea service and the crystal clocks on the small mantles trembling and tinkling gently in the chamber’s still air. Antoinette realizes, through the pain in her hand and du Barry’s expression of shock and rage, that it was her hand.

“I didn’t mean to”- she begins, but du Barry reaches out quicker than Antoinette has ever seen anyone do and grabs the wrist of the hand that slapped her, pulling it down; pulling Antoinette toward her, no doubt so du Barry can return the blow. Antoinette tries to break out of her grasp, but du Barry holds her tighter until her wrist starts to hurt. Antoinette bares her teeth and wants to slap her again. Their faces are just inches apart now.

Looking back, she couldn’t say which of them closed the distance first. Suddenly their lips are pressed together, and du Barry has released her in shock, and Antoinette is grabbing at du Barry; clawing at her ridiculous, ostentatious gown, scratching at her flesh, trying to fight off the other woman’s nails on her own person – all without their lips ever breaking apart. There’s something cleansing about the anger and pain as Antoinette feels her own skin raked and her hair pulled. This feels somehow pure, a strange kind of release. She’s been angry ever since she arrived in France. Since long before that, in fact; since the preparations for her marriage began. She’s been angry at the ridiculous etiquette, the horrible little fashion dolls, the tedious dances and endless card game lessons and her mother’s iron will, and now, here at Versailles, she’s angry at her husband and the Countess de Noailles and the gossiping aunts and yes, at du Barry…and now she can feel it all burning away.

Soon they’re no longer clawing and ripping at each other, just gripping each other, tighter and tighter, until their bodies are pressed together and Antoinette can feel the warmth of du Barry’s skin through their gowns, and thinks she can even smell the woman’s soap and hair pomade. Du Barry is doing something with her tongue; Antoinette never knew you could do more with kisses than just press your lips together, but there seems to be much more to it. She tries to join in, she and du Barry now fighting with tongues instead of hands, as she feels a warm, tingling, difficult-to-describe sort of excitement starting between her legs. She felt a little of it on her wedding night, when her chambermaid sprayed her with perfume and brushed her hair until it gleamed. But not since then. Not until now.

Du Barry backs her up against the wall and they keep kissing, Antoinette feeling herself slowly losing her train of higher thought, absorbed in pleasure, in the sensations of the other woman, and in her own excitement, including the dregs of anger and even hatred still churning in her gut. She presses her legs together, flexing her pelvic muscles and rubbing her thighs against each other, trying to generate friction, wondering how to extricate a hand so she can reach below her skirts. She knows du Barry is thinking the same thing, as the other woman’s legs shift and hips roll, grinding against Antoinette out of the same urge.

The clocks chime the hour in a low, musical tone, and du Barry is the one to stop first, untangling herself from Antoinette and catching her breath, surveying the damage to her clothing and coiffure just as Antoinette is. She’s also the first to break the silence. “We’ll tell them we opened the window for some air, and a bird got in,” she says at last. “A big crow. It scratched us as we were trying to catch it, and then it flew back out the way it came.”

It sounds like a stupid lie to Antoinette, but it’s still better than the truth, so she nods. Her throat is dry suddenly, and she pours herself a little tea, which is cold now. Antoinette doesn’t care, and she doesn’t care if it makes her nervous, either. She can’t get much more nervous or excited than she is right now, and strangely, she feels better than she did before. At least she’s having feelings at all again.

Du Barry is recovering beside her, enough to smirk at her again. “Do you ever kiss your husband like that?”

Antoinette blushes all over again, as if the last half hour or so never even happened. “No.”

Du Barry nods slowly. She looks red herself. “Lesson one,” she says. “Try that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Antoinette can tell as soon as she walks into the aunts’ apartment that they know about the meeting. They’re going to grill her about it, she has no doubt, but at least they’ve agreed to see her at all afterward. Originally, they hadn’t even wanted her to speak to du Barry, on pain of banishment from their apartments.

The conversation is polite and stilted until Victoire spits it out. “Louis told us about your little chat with du Barry.”

Antoinette blushes. “Yes…it was by order of the King. So I thought I should suffer through it.” She shrugs a little helplessly, feeling like Victoire and Sophie can see right through her, and know exactly what happened.

“How did it go?” Sophie presses, eyes glinting wickedly. “Did she really talk about her adventures _walking_ the _streets?”_

“No…I mean, not yet,” says Antoinette quickly. The sisters like novelty, and won’t have any interest in her if she can’t deliver it to them, especially after she betrayed them by speaking to du Barry at all. “I’m sure she will. I think…I think the king told her to ask me things about…about my fertility. She said she had ways of knowing. Even better than the doctor could.”

“Be careful what you tell her,” Victoire advises. “Remember, she’s political. She never wanted the alliance with Austria, and she has no motive to help you with your marriage, since a son would get you plenty of influence. She probably thinks she can take advantage of you.”

“Everyone seems to think they can take advantage of me,” says Antoinette’s mouth before she can stop it. She smiles at the aunts apologetically. “Except you and my husband, and the King of course. Forgive me; I misspoke.”

She doesn’t mean it.

 

“Why are you helping me?” Antoinette asks du Barry when they finally meet again. She’s been dreading it all week, almost worried she’d have a resurgence of her stomach ills over it. Now, she tries to stir her own tea gently. “With the Dauphin?”

“The King asked me to,” du Barry says promptly, but Antoinette shakes her head.

“You have influence with the king. You could’ve talked him out of it,” she points out. “You didn’t want the alliance. You didn’t want me here. Why would you work to keep me at court?”

Du Barry shrugs, but Antoinette can’t quite buy her casual demeanor. “Maybe I was bored. Maybe I was curious. The alliance is here whether I want it or not. Maybe I’m trying to build bridges with the next king,” she adds.

Antoinette tries not to snort. “I don’t think Louis will have much need of you. Even if I allowed that, which I won’t.”

“Really? No royal mistress for your husband?” Du Barry looks a little surprised. “It’s tradition at Versailles.”

“It’s also tradition for almost two hundred women to bathe and dress me every day.” Antoinette shakes her head. “Back home…” she trails off, swallowing hard. She hates the idea of crying in front of du Barry.

To her surprise, du Barry doesn’t remark on her mood shift – or try to comfort her, for that matter. The woman looks frozen, perplexed like a deer caught off guard in a thicket. She stays quiet, waiting for Antoinette to finish.

Antoinette collects herself, blinking back the tears. “At Vienna, I had one or two chambermaids to help me with my corsets. Here, as I say, I have almost two hundred servants in all, and noblewomen I’ve never met can come in at any hour of the day and watch me like one of the creatures in the royal zoo. So some traditions seem silly.”

Du Barry concedes this point with a reluctant nod. “It’s true I didn’t want the alliance,” she says at last. “I don’t see what Austria can contribute to France. Another ally against Britain, I guess, but what’s the point of that? France needs to put its own house in order, if you ask me, not that anyone has.” She shrugs, turning a little surly again. “I’ve lived outside of Versailles – ‘every bed in Paris,’ like your friends the Princesses say. So I should know.”

 _But the French court is rich_ , Antoinette wants to point out, because she does know that; Count Mercy and her mother told her before she came. But she doesn’t want another fight with du Barry. She isn’t sure if kissing someone besides one’s husband counts as adultery if that person is another woman, but she doesn’t want to take chances.

Du Barry sighs and drains her teacup. “We should get on with it,” she decides, and Antoinette nods in agreement, straightening up. “So. Remember what we…uh…” she’s the one blushing now, for once, and Antoinette tries not to giggle at the sight. “The technique I showed you last time? For kissing?”

“Yes,” Antoinette says as neutrally as she can. “I do.”

Du Barry grins at her across the repaired table, through her blush. “Maybe we should practice it.”

Antoinette is nodding before she realizes what she’s saying, and then her stomach flips over again. “Wait…you don’t mean…with _each other_ , do you?”

“Is there a better way to practice?”

“I don’t know if I should be kissing people who aren’t my husband.”

“Kissing can be appropriate in a lot of different situations,” du Barry points out. “And it’s not as if I’m another man, is it? Besides, it’s for educational purposes.” She grins. “Of course, if it makes you that uncomfortable, then I guess…”

“No, I do need to learn…” Antoinette swallows. Du Barry must have a point. After all, she’s right; it is just a lesson, and she’s not some other man. “You’re right,” she decides. “Let’s try it again.”

Du Barry comes to her this time, almost too quickly, her warmth and weight against Antoinette as she kisses her. Antoinette can just taste the fragrant tea on du Barry’s lips. Briefly, she wonders what it would be like to do this after an evening where one or both of them have been drinking wine, or champagne. She can feel that warmth growing deep inside her again, and soon she’s pressing her own tongue to du Barry’s, while the two women’s arms entwine around each other’s waists.

Antoinette doesn’t know how long it is – it feels like no time at all, but the clocks chime – before du Barry extricates herself long enough to smirk, despite her own flushed cheeks, and murmur, “You’re a very quick learner, Dauphine.”

Antoinette smiles a little at her words, but a part of her isn’t ready to stop. “I might need more practice…”

“Later,” du Barry says, a mischievous glitter in her eye. “We’ve got to move on for now. So, next lesson…” she stands, and to Antoinette’s wordless shock, starts to carefully remove her clothes.

“What” – Antoinette manages. “What are you doing?”

“Have you ever taken off your nightdress in bed?” du Barry asks, now stripped down to her own linens. “If you want to attract a man, sometimes just the sight of a naked woman’s body does wonders.”

That does make some sense, but… “Completely naked? Are you sure?” Antoinette blushes. She’s never seen under Louis’ nightshirt, and he’s never seen under her nightgown.

“Yes, I am, and you need to get comfortable with being naked,” du Barry insists, heading over to the door and locking it, and then closing the curtains. “We’ll do it together. Just a little bit at first. I’ll help you out of your gown, and then take off the rest of this.”

Antoinette is sure this is going to be a trick, but she lets du Barry remove her layers of satin, silk, and linen with surprising care, sighing in relief as her corset loosens around her ribcage. She shivers as she feels the air on her skin, covered always, especially now that she can’t bathe privately any longer and so wears a nightrail into the tub. There’s a nip in the air of the room, closed off as it is, and she feels her nipples hardening as she struggles to cover everything before du Barry, who’s finishing undressing herself.

Antoinette tries not to look at the other woman, but it’s impossible. Du Barry is a little taller than she is, but a drop skinnier, with the outlines of a few ribs showing through her white skin. Her breasts are a hair larger, Antoinette thinks, than her own. She’s silently relieved to see the tufts of body hair on du Barry’s underarms and groin, in similar placement to Antoinette’s own hair. The classical marble statues and paintings she’s seen of goddesses like Aphrodite never have hair there, never anywhere but on their heads. But if even someone like du Barry has it, it must be natural; it must be perfectly attractive for a woman to have.

Antoinette blushes harder as du Barry walks up to her, both women wearing only their shoes and rolled-down stockings. The other woman gets just a hair closer than Antoinette was expecting – maybe closer than Antoinette wants – but doesn’t bridge the gap between them. Antoinette is grateful for that; some part of her wants to touch du Barry, but she feels too fragile to risk a touch in return.

 

“You know where babies come from, don’t you?” asks du Barry, and Antoinette treats her to a withering look, not sure whether the woman is teasing or not. Of course she knows that.

Du Barry shrugs a little defensively, wrapping herself tighter in one of the thick blankets Antoinette has begun keeping in the room, along with some books and even a pack of cards, now that nakedness training has become a regular feature of their sessions. A large part of the training simply consists of the two of them being naked together, as Antoinette acclimates to the notion of another person seeing her without clothes. The blankets are just for warmth against the winter chill.

“Well, men enjoy sleeping with women because it feels good to them,” du Barry continues. “Their cocks – where the seed comes from, you know – are very sensitive, and they love to feel us around them.”

“I’m not sure Louis does,” Antoinette points out. “You mentioned how sometimes men touch themselves…I don’t think he ever does.”

“Really?” du Barry looks legitimately surprised. “That’s not usual. Everyone touches themselves sometimes. Or almost everyone. Even babies and children, before their parents teach them not to. Speaking of which…cocks. Women don’t have them,” she adds with a small laugh. “Obviously. In general. Some people…I’ve heard stories, especially about the New World. But we don’t. Mostly.” She shrugs off the blanket, and spreads her legs. Antoinette tries not to look away in embarrassment.

“I say ‘mostly’ because we do have these.” Du Barry is pointing to a little piece of skin, like a kind of hood, just a few inches above her sex. “They’re much smaller, of course, and harder to reach, under layers of skin like this, but inside these folds there is a little organ that feels very similar to how a cock does. When you touch it…or when a man does.”

Antoinette reaches between her own legs to find hers in sympathy; she finds she can’t see it, even with the small hand mirror du Barry brings out, but she can feel for it. Stroking all along that area feels good, but when she finds that special part, Antoinette immediately knows she’s in the right spot. A blush is spreading down her face and over her body now; she shivers with pleasure as du Barry grins, as much out of pleasure and happiness watching her as triumph. “You can stroke it in front of me,” she tells Antoinette, going red herself. “I don’t mind. I can even help you.”

Antoinette tries not to let her jaw hang at the possibility of being allowed to touch du Barry in such a way, as well as du Barry touching her. “Yes, please. Help me.”

Du Barry crawls to her on the soft carpeted floor, almost too eager, and Antoinette curls her own wrap around the other woman, guarding her from the winter chill. Du Barry curls against her, the two women pressing skin-to-skin as du Barry reaches gently between Antoinette’s legs. Antoinette shivers at the unfamiliar sensation of another’s hand touching her in such a sensitive place, but du Barry’s skill quickly reveals itself. Her nimble fingers comb through Antoinette’s fine, curling pubic hair, glide down to her clit, and after a few strokes around the little hood dip deeper, tracing the rim of her opening and then, to Antoinette’s shock, ghosting one finger just inside.

“Shh,” du Barry hushes her gently when she cries out in surprise. “I won’t go deep. I won’t touch your maidenhood. I can stop,” she adds, but Antoinette shakes her head no.

“Can I” – she swallows, then manages it. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” du Barry breathes. “Yes, _please_ …”

Antoinette feels her fingers trace clumsily down the curve of the other woman’s neck and shoulder, and then she reaches cautiously for one of du Barry’s heavy, round breasts, enjoying its weight and shape in her hands. “The nipple,” du Barry manages. Antoinette strokes and pinches it, and the other woman’s face reddens under her powder and rouge. “Good… _more_ …”

Antoinette reaches past du Barry’s smooth, flat, soft pelvis and between her legs, stroking gently at first – too gently; so gently the other woman has to take her hand and press it down harder, with the air of a music instructor guiding a student on the harpsichord. When Antoinette finds her clit, she feels an actual shudder go through du Barry, and the woman’s back arches, looking almost as if she’s recoiling for a moment. Antoinette stops, cautious. But then du Barry moans, “ _Do it again_ ,” in a tone that’s more plea than order or instruction, and Antoinette feels a small smirk of triumph spread over her own face. Her triumph is compounded when du Barry reaches orgasm, and her cry sends Antoinette herself over the edge.


	3. Chapter 3

Antoinette ignores the stage-whispered complaints of her grumbling ladies-in-waiting behind her. Overnight, the gardens of Versailles were covered – more like frosted; it really does resemble delicate white icing on a pastry – in a fresh coat of snow, and Antoinette insisted on taking her daily walk anyway. It’s not enough snow to make walking too difficult, especially if she forgoes the immense hoops and forms of her more stylish, complex French gowns. Aside from flannel undergarments, she’s wearing a corset and a smaller hoop, and not much else under the heavy gown, robe, and furs she wrapped herself in before heading out. Between her relatively simple attire and the chill in the air, sharp with the smell of snow, she feels strangely free. The snow seems to muffle all sound, even that of the court ladies behind her. The white dusting over the elaborate paths and shrubberies gives everything a marvelous simplicity and purity, and Antoinette’s imagination turns toward a beautiful gown – not brocade covered in layers of jewels, lace, and ribbon, but somehow capturing the purity and elegance of an echoing, snow-covered garden.

She’s almost completed a promenade around her usual path when she spots the swirl of black and gray furs sailing toward them like an enemy ship across the lawn. She nearly smiles as she watches du Barry stop a few yards ahead of her on the path. Behind her, the ladies cease their gossip, no doubt waiting to see what the two women will do. Antoinette and du Barry are still supposed to hate each other, after all.

Antoinette wonders what du Barry will do, too – and the longer she looks at the other woman, the more it seems to her that du Barry has no idea, either. What brought her out here? Did she not recognize Antoinette, and simply see a lady walking in the snowy garden and decide it looked like fun? Or did she have some idea for a rendezvous – a kiss in the snow, Antoinette thinks; to feel the winter air on du Barry’s cheeks as they flush red; naturally, not with any rouge’s aid; maybe a few of the snowflakes that still drift down from the gray-blue sky caught in the other woman’s long, dark eyelashes…

In full view of the court, should any of them decide to look out their windows? With Antoinette’s ladies in waiting just a few steps behind? What was du Barry thinking?

Antoinette feels separated from her, suddenly, almost as much as she did when they first met, or when they first had tea together in her private rooms. The hush of the snow over the very distant rush of winter wind makes the scene even more isolated, as the four of them stand within this strange space that Antoinette and du Barry created between them.

 _I should go to confession_ , Antoinette thinks distantly. _I have been unfaithful to Louis_. She feels no real guilt over it; her affection for Louis is platonic, as his feelings toward her appear to be as well. It’s a precaution, like the pilgrimage she and her mother made to her aunt’s abbey before she departed for France.

The thought of Austria gives her a wisp of an idea, and before she’s really thought through it, she’s bending over to gather up some snow off one of the bushes, and forming it into a ball, as tight as she can pack this light, powdery snowfall. She’s probably ruining these gloves, but she doesn’t care. She realizes belatedly that her throwing arm has probably withered from disuse here; du Barry will laugh at her for it later in private.

She throws the snowball underhand, and inexpertly after so much time away from Hofburg, but still manages to land the throw, striking low on du Barry’s wide skirts, the ball falling to pieces on impact. The other woman probably barely felt anything.

She sees du Barry’s expression turn perplexed, even a little indignant, and for a moment Antoinette is almost worried she’s somehow shattered the truce between them – until du Barry bends down too, grabbing up her own handfuls of snow and starting to pack them.

Antoinette grins as she lets the snowball hit her – it hits her skirt, but the impact is a bit harder than her own snowball made – and then she’s off, ducking behind one of the ornamental trees and grabbing for snow. “Go on ahead of me,” she manages to tell her ladies before the laughter overtakes her. “You’re dismissed – I’ll be in in a moment – you’ll only get all snowy”- They retreat to the palace steps, but don’t dare go inside; if they left her out here alone, the Countess de Noailles would flay them.

Du Barry is clearly no stranger to snowball fights; Antoinette realizes quickly that just because this is Versailles, doesn’t mean the woman will show any ladylike restraint. As soon as Antoinette exposes any part of her body – a necessity as far as actually throwing a snowball goes – du Barry is targeting her. The woman must be making them ahead of time; was probably making them while Antoinette was dismissing her ladies and finding cover. It’s all she can do to keep up, and soon, the other woman is getting closer, bush by bush. Finally, she’s too close for Antoinette’s tree to protect her, and she’s forced to surrender to du Barry’s smirk.

“I didn’t think you knew how to make a snowball,” du Barry tells her, while they catch their breath together on the stone side of a frozen fountain. Up on the steps, Antoinette’s ladies in waiting are shivering and starting to look a little blue; Antoinette knows she’ll have to take pity on them soon.

“I’m from Austria,” Antoinette tells her a little incredulously. “I spent every winter in the mountains. We played in the snow every day.”

“Maybe it’ll catch on here, too. That’d be nice.” Du Barry glances up at the two court ladies. “Probably not, though.”

Antoinette shrugs; she doesn’t want to think about how little influence she actually has over her own life here, let alone the life of the French royal court. It seems rather strange, given that she will be a queen someday – at least, if all goes according to plan.

As if du Barry is thinking the same thing, she asks, “How are…how are things with Louis?”

Antoinette shakes her head. “The same.”

“Really? _How?”_ Du Barry looks dumbfounded. “Those are some good methods – and on a repressed son of the court like him”-

“He doesn’t seem to want to do it,” Antoinette says, trying not to sound helpless. “Sometimes we start, but…he stops himself. It’s as if he’s…afraid, maybe.”

“That’s strange,” du Barry says, forehead puckering a little. “I’ll tell the King. About Louis stopping himself like that,” she adds quickly, seeing Antoinette’s expression. “Maybe he can talk with him.”

Antoinette nods, and then, trying to change the subject, she adds, “I wish I could stay out here all day. I don’t want to go back inside.” The remark comes out sounding sadder than she intended.

Du Barry nods. “We can meet in your rooms later,” she offers. “The King seems happy that we’re getting along now. Even if he realizes all the trouble is Louis’ fault, he won’t stop us from getting together.”

Antoinette nods. “I’d like that.”

“Good. Now get back to your ladies before they freeze.” Du Barry smiles up at her as she gets to her feet. “Thank you, Dauphine. I’m glad someone finally came to Versailles who knows how to have fun.” Antoinette feels her own cheeks growing hot; at least she’s been out in the cold, so she has a fitting excuse.


	4. Chapter 4

Antoinette realizes as they sneak out to one of the coaches; already masked, shushing each other between muffled laughter as they climb into the carriage – Louis takes her hand gallantly and helps her up the steps; Antoinette doesn’t need to force herself to smile lovingly at him this time – that she has never actually _seen_ France before.

That’s perhaps not technically true. She did tour it briefly, right after her wedding, in an official capacity, but she didn’t really see _France_ then. They just carted or led her around like a show pony; Antoinette didn’t really see the country or the people, except through a carriage window or peering at her from behind lines of royal guards.

She still isn’t seeing much of the country over which she will (hopefully) be Queen, but at least she will be outside Versailles, and she will see Paris, and more importantly, she will meet people and speak to them unofficially, and they will hopefully have no idea who she is.

She isn’t sure why the idea is so intoxicating. It’s not as if she regularly interacted with peasants back in Vienna. But then, back in Vienna, she had meadows and forests to ride through at Schonbrunn in the summer and sledding at the Hermannskogel in the winter. She was – mostly – free.

Here, she just has Paris, which shouldn’t seem so disappointing by comparison, since it’s where everyone wants to go, even the most influential courtiers at Versailles; even du Barry says she misses Paris. And it _is_ a lovely city.

But it is not Vienna. And besides, Antoinette muses as they ride into Paris, sometimes even a whole city is still too small. Even away from Versailles, there is still that odor on the edge of perception, of many people living close together.

But at least it is not Versailles. And it _is_ a ball – the first time in years that Antoinette has enjoyed a ball, really _enjoyed_ it. She isn’t on display; nobody knows who she is, and therefore no one cares what she does. She and Louis don’t stay close together; they mingle and spread out within the room, and after her first few glasses of champagne, Antoinette slides easily from partner to partner, the ballroom’s gilded ceiling seeming to whirl above her head as she dances around the hall.

Wearing her black gown and mask, she feels like a raven, or the spirit of Night, or a rich young widow. It’s almost as if the dark clothing leaches out the darkness in her mood. She _is_ a raven; she is flying. She is free.

“May I?” asks another young gentleman. His voice sounds a little higher; as if he’s still on the cusp of manhood. It still amazes Antoinette that she is now older than he is, at least by a few years.

She turns to gaze at him more intently. He looks familiar. He is young, not very tall, still without stubble or even a few stray dark hairs on his upper lip, like Louis has. His lips are big and sweet, flower-like, and his dark eyes are large and heavy-lidden. Normally, Antoinette finds herself drawn to more developed men – men with stubble, men who seem strong – but he _is_ beautiful, and she is attracted. She lowers her fan and favors him with a smile, a brief curtsy, and a nod.

“Where are you from?” he asks her as they begin.

“Far away,” she says with a smile, hoping she sounds mysterious.

“Versailles?”

It’s an odd guess. Antoinette looks over at him in surprise. “What?”

“Me too.” He smiles. “I serve the king. I think I’ve seen you around, in fact.”

 _What if he recognizes me?_ Antoinette swallows. “Um…are you sure? I’m really not from Versailles, I swear…”

The young man laughs. “Oh, yes you are. I remember you. Surely you remember me. We’ve met before…” he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I’ve seen you naked.”

Antoinette stares into his face, mouth agape and suddenly she _knows_.

“That’s a good disguise,” she tries to laugh. She’s not unhappy, but she is surprised. Under her foundation and rouge she is blushing.

“Thank you,” du Barry says with her usual smirk. “I’ve used it before. Just once or twice, though.”

“I don’t know how I didn’t see sooner…”

“It’s the makeup. I mean, I’m not wearing any.” She laughs. “Nobody at court has ever seen me without it.”

“Not even the king?”

“Well…maybe him,” du Barry admits. “I do try not to sleep in it. Bad for the skin. But I also try not to let him see me without it. I don’t remember.”

Antoinette dances in a little closer to her. “You look so beautiful without it.”

“I’m sure you do, too. You always reminded me of one of the angels in those paintings,” du Barry murmurs in her ear. “From the first time I saw you. Fair and blonde and pink…golden.”

Antoinette tries not to giggle helplessly. Suddenly she’s getting wet, and they’re not even doing anything – not even kissing. Oh, it’s so lovely to dance with du Barry like this – so bizarre, but so wonderful – but part of her really wants more…

“One more dance,” du Barry suggests, pulling her a little closer. “Then we can go find somewhere more private…”

“Yes,” Antoinette says, a little embarrassed at how quickly she agrees, but du Barry doesn’t seem to notice.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s after that dance, and the next one, and the quartet is barely playing now, because most of the couples have found themselves private little corners. Antoinette and du Barry are no exception. They found the doorway of a vacant upstairs stateroom, and they haven’t come up for air since. Even through the layers of her gown, Antoinette’s whole body is tingling while du Barry holds her closer and closer.

“Hey,” the other woman breaks the kiss for a moment to murmur.

“Yes?”

“I never told you my Christian name, did I?” du Barry starts to laugh. “I bet you’ve never heard it, have you?”

“No, I never have.” _That is pretty funny_. “What is it?”

“Jeanne.”

“That’s…so beautiful.”

Du Barry goes a little red. “It’s just ‘Jeanne.’ Besides, you look like you’re surprised I even have a name.”

“Of course I’m not.” Antoinette returns her smirk for once. “I just thought it would be something more exotic, like ‘Diane’ or ‘Venus’ or…some other goddess name, I can’t remember any others…”

“No, well, we can’t all have fancy names like ‘Antoinette,’” du Barry – _Jeanne_ – teases her.

“Well at least I” – Antoinette freezes. “Is that Louis?”

“What?”

“On the stairs, coming up here,” Antoinette hisses.

Jeanne – stops, listening hard. “You’re right,” she whispers after a beat. “I hear him, too.”

“At least you’re in disguise…” Antoinette starts to say, already realizing as she says it why it’s wrong.

“No, because you’re still necking with a strange man who’s not your husband!” Jeanne hisses.

“Shut up, I _know_ that!”

“Well, I’ve got to hide!” Jeanne looks around and then, before Antoinette can suggest something as sensible as the vacant room behind them, Jeanne crawls under Antoinette’s wide, round hoop skirt.

“What if I have to walk?” Antoinette hisses.

“Don’t!”

Louis and his brother are coming around the corner; Antoinette starts fanning herself.

“I’m just fine,” she tells Louis quickly. “I just needed a little air…a little rest…”

“Of course, my dear,” he agrees. “You look flushed. It’s getting late; why don’t we head home?”

“But the party’s not over yet,” Antoinette tries not to whine. “If you don’t want to stay here, at least we can explore Paris a little more…” the thought of going back to Versailles fills her stomach with cold lead. “We could watch the sun rise…”

“Are you sure?” Louis reads the answer in her face. “All right, a bit longer, then – would you like to dance?” _The idea that his wife might like to dance with him is an afterthought_ , Antoinette thinks bitterly.

And then jumps, biting back a gasp, because Jeanne du Barry starts nibbling at her inner thigh. “Are you all right?” Louis asks, brow furrowing in bewilderment.

“Of course,” Antoinette manages as Jeanne continues. “I just…I need a little break from dancing…I have a bit of a cramp.”

Louis still looks troubled. “Two more dances,” he says decisively. “Then we’ll return home for the night, Marie. I think you’ve overdone it.”

“I’ll be down in just a few minutes,” Antoinette says, knowing she’s reddening again, watching his brother. He’s always come across as less oblivious than Louis; does he suspect she’s up here with anyone? But if he does, he doesn’t seem troubled by it, or interested at all.

Louis accepts her answer and leads his brother back down the staircase, and Antoinette relaxes, doing her best to kick the other woman and missing entirely. “You…you _idiot_ …”

Jeanne peeks out from underneath her skirts, hand over her mouth, barely stifling laughs and snorts.

 

* * *

 

 

“I wish I could ride home with you,” Antoinette murmurs to her as they prepare to descend to the carriages.

“I wish you could, too,” Jeanne agrees, squeezing her hand before she sweeps down toward her own carriage in a somewhat ungentlemanly fashion.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun rises over the gardens of Versailles as they drive up. For once, Antoinette isn’t so sorry to come home. She makes a mental note to call for some watercolors later; perhaps she can try to capture this sight, even though she’s no court painter.

 

* * *

 

 

The guards greet their carriage with somber faces and uniforms, and Antoinette wonders how much trouble they’re all in. “Has something happened?” Louis asks them, acting calm as if they didn’t just spend the night dancing in Paris without any sort of official notice or escort.

The captain nods. “His Majesty the king is very ill. Physicians believe it to be the smallpox.”

The morning air is cool; Antoinette shivers.


	5. Chapter 5

The little blue anteroom has become a sanctuary for Antoinette and Jeanne. Right now, they’re using it to hide from the smell of death that seems to permeate Versailles over its usual _eau de latrine_. Antoinette remembers the shadow from when the Countess Lerchenfeld, her favorite governess, and her niece Maria Theresa, both passed away. Being near Jeanne, who seems almost to be life incarnate, is the only thing that keeps her from feeling as if death is just a few steps behind them all.

Victoire and Sophie have been praying at the king’s bedside, and Antoinette joined them earlier, until she began to feel sick, and begged off with a headache.

“Were you able to go to him?” she asks Jeanne. She may not love the king, but seeing the man who was also so full of life and vigor in such a state was chilling.

“A bit, before the sisters arrived,” Jeanne says shortly. “They didn’t want me there.”

Antoinette senses she wants to say more, so she waits quietly, stroking the other woman’s hair.

“I heard them talking,” Jeanne continues finally. “They said the confessor won’t give him last rights if he still has a mistress at court.”

“But it’s an official position at court, the _maîtresse-en-titre_ ” –

“I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m married to the Comte, even though we never…” Jeanne shrugs irritably. “How should _I_ know?”

Antoinette hugs her closer. “The aunts love to talk.”

Jeanne nods slowly. “You’re right,” she says at last, relaxing slightly in Antoinette’s arms.

Antoinette stands, pulling a robe around herself. “I’ll order a bottle,” she decides. “We’ll toast the king. More firewood, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

They haven’t finished the bottle of champagne between them yet, which might account for both women’s vigor. The fire warms the room, too, so Antoinette can crawl out of the blanket she usually huddles under with Jeanne. She’s planning to climb onto the other woman at some point, but for now, kisses are enough…

“Tonie…” Jeanne murmurs with a little smirk, between kisses to Antoinette’s mouth and jaw.

“That’s ‘your Majesty’ to you!” Antoinette decides now is the time, and flips Jeanne onto her back, grinning savagely as she surprises the other woman and pins her wrists down on the mattress. “I’m going to be the _Queen…the Queen of France_ …”

“Yes,” Jeanne gasps, her face red as she pants in excitement, looking like Antoinette feels. “Show me you’re the Queen – show me, Tonie”-

Antoinette presses her full weight down on Jeanne, so that she can keep pinning her arms as she ghosts her fingers down the other woman’s body, stroking Jeanne’s folds before pressing a finger into her. “You’re such a dirty harlot,” she mutters. “I bet you can’t even feel just one finger. I bet a dirty whore like you needs more…”

Jeanne snarls, angry and frustrated, but doesn’t push her off. “You’re right, yes – yes, Your Majesty, you’re right – I need _more_ ”-

“Beg me,” Antoinette snaps. “Confess what a whore you are to me and beg me like the peasant you are”-

“Oh God,” Jeanne half-growls, half-moans. “Oh, my God…all right, all right…please, Your Majesty, please, just give me more…”

“Say it,” Antoinette insists.

“I’m a whore!” Jeanne gasps, just a little too loudly. “I’m a filthy, dirty whore, and I need you to use me like a whore – _please_ ”-

“Oh my God…” Antoinette has barely even grinded on the pillow-corner she’d tucked between her legs for just that purpose, but already she can feel her orgasm breaking over her, and she fingers Jeanne furiously until the other woman is gasping under her, as Antoinette finally releases her arms. Jeanne starts touching herself, too, finishing herself off. Once both women have collapsed on the bed together, side by side, Antoinette turns toward Jeanne to find the other woman smirking at her. “What?”

“You’ve gotten really good at this.” Jeanne runs an affectionate hand through Antoinette’s hair. “If I wasn’t having such a good time, I’d say my work here was done. If the Dauphin doesn’t…uh…accomplish the ‘great work’ now, then he might be some kind of eunuch.” She sighs, dark eyes turning a little sad. “You _are_ beautiful, Tonie.”

“So are you,” Antoinette confesses. “The first time I saw you, I couldn’t believe how…” she shakes her head, searching for the words. “How _striking_ you looked. So much more…so much _realer_ than anyone else in this place.”

“Nothing is real here,” Jeanne remarks, stretching out and pulling one of the blankets over them both. “I learned that a long time ago. These people don’t want reality. They want distraction from the emptiness inside them.”

Antoinette turns toward Jeanne, curling into the other woman gradually, waiting for her to pull away, surprised when Jeanne curls an arm around her. “I want reality,” she says finally. “I have emptiness inside me, but…I don’t want a distraction from it. I want to fill it.”

Jeanne closes her eyes, and Antoinette feels a part of the other woman close itself off from her. “Well, I wish you luck with that.”

Antoinette doesn’t know what that means, or what has brought on Jeanne’s moodiness, but she closes her own eyes, trying to content herself with the moment and the other woman’s closeness. Soon, though, she realizes she wonders something. “When you say nothing is real here…do you mean…you, too?” _And us?_ she wants to ask, but isn’t sure how to say it.

“Of course,” Jeanne murmurs, eyes still closed. “The king wants an exotic harlot, and the court wants something to talk about. So I give them what they want, and in exchange I get to stay.”

“There must be something real about you.”

“If there is, I left it behind me a long time ago.” Jeanne shrugs. “Someday I’ll fade into the shadows and dust of this place, and the sun’ll pass through me like glass. Maybe you’ll still hear me wailing down the halls at night, like a ghost. I already feel like I’m disappearing slowly, sometimes.” For a few long moments after she speaks, there’s only the ticking of the clocks.

“When they first brought me here,” Antoinette whispers, not sure why she’s telling the story, but knowing that she has to. “They had erected a tent along the border. And I had to go in on the Austrian side. And they stripped me naked, and then dressed me up again in this outfit they had all ready for me. Like a doll they were playing with.” She shivers without meaning to.

Jeanne opens one eye to look over at Antoinette. Then she turns over on the bed, toward the other woman, and wraps her other arm around Antoinette. “That’s in the past now,” she says, voice turning a little hoarse. “And all my worries are in the future. So for now, let’s just sleep.” Antoinette nods, and closes her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, here's the song from the movie that was stuck in my head while I was writing, partly because I love anachronistic soundtracks. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUg8o6VhniA


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